


It Was a Dark and Phryne Night

by leafingbookstea



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-08-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7802089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leafingbookstea/pseuds/leafingbookstea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel (?) to Writers of the Purple Prose</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was a Dark and Phryne Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is the “sequel” I never intended to write. I thank/blame flashofthefuse and so should you.

Phryne Fisher could not, for the life of her, understand what Jack found so damned appealing about Zane Grey. The same man, who read Shakespeare and Rilke with a voice that raised her body temperature, read this pulp fiction for enjoyment. Given that she had never read any herself, Jack told her on more than occasion that she had passed sentence without a trial. He was right, of course, but she would never tell him that.

 

            She would tell him later that the only reason she picked up the book in the first place was boredom. Had she known that one roof tile was looser than the others; she would have avoided that fall that bruised her ribs in the first place. She would have also avoided Mac’s good-natured, though unwelcome, “ribbing” about having to confine Phryne to her boudoir for a week of bed rest.

 

            Phryne picked up the Zane Grey because it was the only one left on the nightstand she hadn’t read twice. She thought of ringing for Mr. Butler to bring her more books, but it was past dinner and she anticipated Jack’s coming home soon. She was determined to engage him in much more pleasant activities when he arrived, though he had thwarted her previous attempts claiming concern for her recovery.

           

            Sighing, Phryne picked up the book and began reading. Finding a comfortable position with the ache in her ribs was difficult, not to mention the pain of deep breaths whenever she tried to take one. With a tsk of frustration, she put the book down and turned carefully to the nightstand that contained the medication Mac had prescribed which, up to now, Phryne had refused to take. She immediately knew why, it tasted vile. Washing the unpleasant taste away with the last of the cognac in her glass, she slowly returned to a reclining position and picked up the book once more.

 

            It came as a surprise to Phryne that, while it wasn’t Shakespeare or even DH Lawrence, Zane Grey was not the worst author she had ever read. She had little interest in the American West setting, that must be the reason she read the same line five times. She would finish the chapter, if only to be able to tell Jack later that she had made an honest attempt. _Where had she left off?_ She thought as her eyelids began to droop…

 

* * *

 

 

            “I’m telling ya, Sheriff, all I could see was the white head of that Arabian.” Bert, the stagecoach driver was saying, ”The rider was all in black and there weren’t no moon tonight so I couldn’t see the face. But it was the Rouge Rider, I know it!”

 

            Sheriff Jack Robinson’s nod was slow and patient. He had heard this tale at least ten times before from stage drivers and train conductors all along the state. Robberies being thwarted by a rider of a white Arabian, the figure always dressed in all black. Those few who got a closer look saw only lips that appeared to be painted with vermillion.

 

            The Sheriff knocked back the last of his whiskey, nodding to the bartender.

 

            “Your boss in the office, Tobias?” the Sheriff’s asked, in a voice made of whiskey and dusty trails.

           

            “Dunno, Sheriff, I ain’t seen her since we opened,” Tobias said, wiping a glass with flour sack towel. “You can go back and take a look for yourself. I reckon she won’t mind seeing it’s you.”

 

            The Sheriff headed to the office at the back of the building behind the staircase that lead to the hotel rooms. _Hotel De La Pescadora_ wasn’t a fancy place by big city standards, but it was a better class of hotel and saloon than should be in a dusty prairie town like this.

 

            His lean figure parted the emerald velvet curtains leading to the back, and came upon a sight he shouldn’t have seen, but didn’t want forget any time soon, the shapely naked leg of one Miss Phryne Fisher. The owner of that naked leg pulled the remainder of her stocking off and turned toward the rustling noise of the curtain. When she saw her visitor’s face she smiled.

 

            “Good Evening, Sheriff” her husky voice always seemed to drop a little lower whenever she spoke to him, “to what do I owe the pleasure?” She turned to face him.

 

            He felt a small measure of disappointment, her movement causing her long skirt to again modestly cover the leg he had been admiring.

 

            “I’ve been hearing stories of the Rouge Rider again, Phryne. I thought you were going to give that up?”

 

            “Whatever are you talking about? I’ve been here all night.”

 

            “I didn’t say it was tonight. “ Jack’s smile let her know he had caught her.

 

            “Oh very well, “ Phryne sighed, “You’ve got me dead to rights, Sheriff. Are you going to clap me in irons and haul me to the jail? You may as well, Jack, I won’t stop doing it and it could be fun, spending the night with you.”

 

            “Phryne,” he warned, but his eyes said he was more amused than angry. “I’m not bringing you in, you haven’t committed any crimes. I only here to ask that you take me with you next time? You’ve got them running away before they can be brought to trial.”

 

            “Would you rather I shot them?” she retorted.

 

            Two week later, she kept the promise she had reluctantly given that night. They rode side by side up the trail to a hill overlooking the tracks. She glanced over at him several times as they rode, the light of the setting sun casting deeper shadows on his well-defined cheekbones, the hair of his thick moustache darker in the setting sun. He cut a surprisingly elegant figure on his roan Mustang. The dungarees he wore hinted at strong leg muscles, his tan leather duster fanning out behind him on to his horse’s hindquarters. She wanted to reach over and kiss him. She told herself it was the moustache that stopped her.

 

            “I should have told you to wear black, Sheriff,” she observed, “They will be able to see you coming from a mile off.”

 

            He tilted his head to look at her, his Stetson casting a long enough shadow it prevented her from seeing his eyes. “They will more than likely see your horse first, Miss Fisher.”

 

            “As long as you give me a little head start, Jack.”

 

            “As always.”

 

            They stopped at a rocky outcrop about halfway up the hill. It was the perfect vantage point, they could see a mile or so of track in each direction, the gibbous moon providing considerably more light than the night of the attempt on the stagecoach. As an added bonus, the boulders on the cliff ‘s edge were high enough to camouflage their horses, but low enough to give them an unobstructed view.

 

            The train approached the water stop a few minutes later. As if on cue, three riders, their mounts at full gallop, came from around the other side of the hill heading straight for the middle cars of the train.

 

            Without a word to Jack, Phryne dug her heels into the haunches of her mount and flew back down the trail. Jack was not far behind, pulling a bandana over his mouth to keep himself from eating the dust in Phryne’s wake.

 

            He reached the train in time to see the Rouge Rider pull out her pearl-handled Colt 45.

 

            “Drop your guns, _hombres_ , we got you surrounded.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “Phryne?” Jack whispered in her ear, trying to hide the humor in his voice, “Wake up, it’s almost high noon.”

 

            “Jack?” Phryne woke in her moonlit boudoir, her eyes narrowing when she realized what he said, “What on earth are you talking about?”

 

            Jack sat next to her on the edge of the bed, picking up the open Zane Grey as he did so. He glanced at the book, then back at her, a small smile on his lips.

 

            “Fine. I read it.” She said defensively, “but I didn’t enjoy it.”

           

            “If you say so.” He leaned over and began a trail of soft kisses from her collarbone to her ear, being careful not to touch her bruised ribs. Finding a favorite spot just behind her ear, he whispered, “So who was the Sheriff?”

 

            “You,” she breathed, giving him whatever he wanted at this moment as long he continued doing what he was doing, “but please don’t ever grow a moustache.”


End file.
